


in any other world (you could tell the difference)

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, X-Factor, a lot of zarry bromance and kisses too, all lower case, and his cross necklace, and later on, harry gets his beanie taken off him, larry stylinson - Freeform, no really, sad!harry aw, stupid!louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:53:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>three times harry gets stomped all over him and one time it's different. also, the world changes colours a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in any other world (you could tell the difference)

**Author's Note:**

> written for my sidekick bella's birthday. she lives off harry angst and my soul.
> 
> disclaimer: my dick is probably more real than this is.

**i.**

it probably starts at the beginning.

right away, like everything they do – it’s immediate, it’s sudden, it just happens and they’re in it for the rush. and harry thinks that’s quite alright, right now, he does –

rushing. of blood, to his cheeks, because he’s _happy_ and he’s biting his lip to keep it from spilling. call him a dreamer, yada yada, but sometimes reality gets smothered and overgrown. and now harry has to share his dream with four other boys.

and it’s even better than it was before, but on your own it’s only lonely, alone.

they grope for boundaries and sometimes find them, sometimes not, and they just can’t be bothered anyway. they shine lights out of their eyes to show the others what’s behind them, and banter to make things less life altering –

\- but it’s there, the heavy. it’s in niall’s jumpy movements and zayn’s careful smile and liam’s tinkering fingers, and it’s in harry’s chest, too. and it’s new, and it’s scary, but harry thinks the heavy may be better yet. like a blanket, it’s warming up.

and there’s a special thing too, something brighter and louder and softer – it’s not jumpy or careful or tinkering, the thing. the thing is warm and funny and tactile.

you know, the thing is. it’s louis.

and harry reckons he may fancy him.

* * *

harry discovers zayn is not all he seems the first night in the bungalow. which is to say – he hadn’t known what zayn seemed like at all before, because the boy had a fence stretched over his skin.

(no walls

no barbed wire

just a fence.)

and harry climbs over it first. he prides himself in it, because he’s not great with people. he can’t seem to tell stores right and flashier people tower over him. he’s moss, not grass. but moss is usually a bit softer.

and moss listens, or maybe this is where the metaphor ends, presumably. except that harry reckons zayn is moss as well.

it’s like this: louis yells a lot. niall talks a lot. liam looks at his feet a lot. zayn watches.

and harry gets that because not everyone should be aces at making friends right away, because not everyone should be vibrant – some people should be smouldering. for keeping balance.

zayn watches. harry listens. and when zayn speaks, harry smiles. and dark brown starts shining a brighter light.

harry climbs over the fence first, and he prides himself in it.

* * *

things start out loudly, but the beginning is quiet.

like louis –

and the rustling of grass when they lie in the sunshine.

“louis,” he says.

“yeah, haz?” his voice sounds like chiming bells without the edges.

“it’s nothing.”

louis leaves it be.

and it was never nothing at all.

* * *

subtlety has never been one of harry’s forte’s, and sometimes it’s embarrassing, and sometimes he isn’t sure.

like now.

because liam’s just given him a glance spilling with knowledge and he knows – he _knows_ – and harry’s hands play nervously with louis’ hair, wondering if they all do.

but he tries not to worry, because maybe they don’t and what if they see him staring at louis crinkly smile a moment too long, it wouldn’t be the end of the world – he’s young and happy and amazed and he won’t let anything bring him down.

(because he imagines louis looking at his dimples a moment too long, too. and what’s not to smile about?)

the world is coloured pastel.

* * *

you see, louis is a touchy-feely person. and harry caught the bug.

it’s a thing. they cuddle when watching telly and ruffle each other’s hair and wrestle on the wooden floor of the x-factor house. they hug. they kiss each other’s cheeks.

and there’s that rush, back up to the surface of harry’s skin, every time – it’s exciting, all of it, but this the most. it’s louis, a whole person, and harry wants him, as a person, wholly.

there’s excitement, but there’s also hope, because louis might just want him back.

it’s a night before a live show, and harry’s nerves are working overtime. tossing and turning can’t seem to lull him to sleep, but he thinks maybe louis can.

when harry lifts the duvet and slips under it, warmth welcomes him. he think maybe this is his place in the world, because he’d never want to leave, not when it’s soft and comfortable and has louis in it.

louis, who expresses his annoyance a moan that evolves into a high pitched whine and makes harry grin – on the inside it’s hot, way too hot, hotter than the bed, it almost makes him sweat because of _want_.

“harry,” louis complains, “what are you doing. in my bed.”

“you don’t mind.”

“i don’t, but.”

harry scoots over and tangles their legs together. his arm stretches across the pillow and the other covers louis shoulder. when he sniffs the pillow cloth, it smells nice. (not that he does.)

“couldn’t sleep,” he murmurs after a long silence. he feels louis eyelashes flutter against his bicep and he breathes out, long, slowly, because the tickling does funny things to his tummy.

“big day tomorrow, eh?”

“yeah. big day.”

“don’t worry. you’ll be amazing. like – you’re amazing.”

harry makes a quiet sound and ducks down to hide his face in louis’ armpit.

“i think you are, yeah.” louis says, and his fingers trace patterns on harry’s back.

it’s nice, louis’ soft voice in ways that don’t show during daylight, louis’ skin warm and calming, and maybe if he tried, harry could sleep now.

but he doesn’t try. he lifts his head and pecks louis’ temple and cheek and nose and chin and mouth.

just like that.

and again.

and they haven’t done that, it’s new and shiny and brilliant and the world is coloured brightly now, because louis’ lips mould to fit themselves against his and his breath tastes like minty toothpaste when their mouths open a little bit –

– and then there are fingers on his face, pushing. harry pulls away looks at their dark shapes, bewildered.

“harry.”

“louis,” he smiles.

“harry.”

“yeah?”

“i don’t think – um.” (harry’s smile falls somewhere along here.) “i don’t think we should.”

harry wants to say _you don’t mind_ but he doesn’t, because he doesn’t know if he’d be right. he feels his lower lip start to tremble a bit.

“okay,” he crackles. “yeah, okay.”

but it isn’t, because harry just got his heart broken and the rush of blood to his cheeks doesn’t feel as nice as it did before.

when he climbs up to the top bunk, the world is coloured in greys and a shade of dark blue.

“haz –”

“it’s nothing.”

but it was never nothing at all.

* * *

**ii.**

in some ways, it doesn’t continue after that. in other ways, it kind of does.

the thing is this: harry says goodbye to a lot of things. he says goodbye to casual touching and tickling fights and hoping and excitement and the world he thought he lived in.

some of it comes back after a while, some of it doesn’t. the thing that stays throughout, though, is the wanting. because harry _wants_ and can’t have, and it’s the most difficult thing. he learns to live with it. he covers it up with filmy barriers, because he’s never know how to build fences like zayn.

zayn is. and that’s all harry needs, he tells himself. (it’s not. but it’s all he gets.) he blooms, but not like a flower, because flowers just aren’t zayn. but zayn gets louder and goofier and grows up a bit more. they all do.

but zayn is the only one who knows. liam _knows_ , but zayn knows-knows. he gathers harry in his arms for nights on end to stop harry’s quiet sobbing, and to shake him out of the numbness after that. when it doesn’t work, he kisses him – and it’s not like that, for neither of them, but it helps. it  becomes a habit.

liam looks at people’s faces more than he looks at his feet, now. and harry thinks no one’s really noticed, but he did, and it makes sense after he’s heard liam tell them about how life used to be, for him. they press kisses into his hair and tell him that _hey, you’re liam goddamn payne and you’re fucking famous, and you’ll shit on their cereal_. it sticks. he’s liam goddamn payne. and he is.

niall is strange. he talks and talks and laughs a lot too, and everyone likes him. it’s strange how he can just – live, without holding back on anything and without being backfired. they’re all jealous of niall sometimes. but when he hugs, he buries his face in the space between neck and shoulder, and that makes up for it.

but harry’s not as happy as he used to be. it’s part of growing up, he thinks, he convinces. maybe heartbreak is too. it’s not all greys and dark blues anymore, however – there’s all kinds of colours now. there’s dark and light and shrill and sometimes even pastel again.

it’s different. it’s months later now, years. it’s been months and harry still doesn’t build fences, but they close up on him without his permission.

it’s not like it couldn’t have been expected, because with great power comes great responsibility, liam tells them. at first it sounds excited, now it just sounds. just sounds –

that’s what they were going for, in the beginning. just sounds. not all this, too.

all the rules, the obligations, the parade, the pretending. it’s not bad, until it is.

“louis, tweet this for a second, would you.” it’s a thing about the upcoming album.

“yeah, sure.”

(that’s what sets it off.)

it’s louis, usually.

“louis, go to this restaurant with your girlfriend. we made reservations.”

“louis, don’t wear those button ups. they look weird.”

“louis, tweet this for a second.”

“louis, tweet that.”

it’s okay, a lot of the time. but as with most things, sometimes it isn’t.

( _bullshit._ )

and harry bears it, of course he does, since he has no choice. oh, he wishes he had.

when they tell him to spend new year’s in america with a certain blonde, he goes. no arguing. harry doesn’t argue. it doesn’t make him happy, but.

at home he’d be so lonely alone.

* * *

**iii.**

it gets crazier – it does. it’s mental.

everything is. their lives have grown into hurricanes, loud and forceful and destructive. and it’s exciting, the way running nowhere in the middle of a storm can be, but it’s also exhausting. they go to sleep as early as they can and don’t sneak out to parties like before, they doze off in the middle of a movie instead of throwing popcorn at each other.

sometimes, it’s hard to stay upright during the day. but they’ve got each other for support, and it’s the best kind anyone could have.

harry likes to lean on zayn. figuratively. literally. it’s comforting in a way that’s probably a bit peculiar, but the lanky boy’s bony limbs press into his sides in all the right places. sometimes harry wishes he was softer, shorter, but then he reminds himself that zayn is what he needs right now and presses his nose into his shoulder. it smells of cigarettes.

he’ learned over the years that beneath zayn’s moss is a rock. it’s his rock. he would arguably be lost without it.

niall makes him nachos.

liam shows him silly videos.

zayn is his rock.

and his mouth tastes like smoke and relief, but not like louis.

(louis. _louis_. minty spicy sweet.)

so, the thing is. it gets crazier.

harry’s not sure he gets the point, really. isn’t the point of being a fan liking people? isn’t the point of liking people being happy to see them being happy? he may be wrong, but. it doesn’t make sense.

it doesn’t make sense when someone rips the beanie off his head and leaves his hair – everywhere. and harry gets nervous, gets a bit embarrassed; because it’s been messy all day and that’s why he wore the beanie in first place and a girl took it and he just wants it back.

“give it back,” harry pleads.

the girl doesn’t answer, doesn’t even seem to have heard him, because she’s busy squealing with her friend over a piece of fabric that belongs to harry styles. and harry styles is right there, and it doesn’t make sense.

“please just give it back?” he tries again.

but no.

“give the hat back, now.” the voice isn’t particularly loud, but demands to be heard. it’s like, authority, or some shit.

the girl looks up from her loot.

“fucking now, i said, yeah?”

it should maybe be a bit funny because it’s louis, and he’s standing in the rain with his fringe plastered to his forehead and he’s shivering and probably about two inches shorter than the girl. but there’s a defiant look in his eyes, and yeah, you don’t mess with louis, no.

not very surprisingly, the girl gives harry back his beanie. reluctantly.

“thanks,” says harry quietly, and the girl nods. little does she know, he isn’t talking to her.

“come on, we gotta get going.” louis pulls on harry’s arm and doesn’t give the girls another look. they walk to the studio. it’s pouring. it’s also silent, but harry doesn’t mind. louis does.

“you shouldn’t, um. you should stand up for yourself more, harry.” he isn’t looking at him, but right ahead, eyes squinting against the raindrops. his hand is still on harry’s bicep – he hasn’t let go, not yet, and harry doesn’t want him to.

“yeah?” says harry, because he doesn’t really know what else to do.

“yeah. they’ll just – walk all over you, otherwise.”

harry doesn’t reply for a while. but then, “i don’t really know how.” it’s small, thin, private. it seems to make louis uncomfortable – he takes his hand off harry and his voice turns a bit more distant. and harry knows, because well – it’s not like they didn’t go back to normal eventually, after that one night, because they did. but there’s always this _thing_ slumbering in the back of harry’s mind and sometimes it shuffles closer to the front, and louis always seems to sense it when it does. and he always backs away, and it’s turned into a continuum of harry’s heart cracking.

“learn it, then.”

and harry nods, tugging a bit at his beanie and watching water pour down on the asphalt.

it startles him when louis actually continues the conversation, now. “hey. you okay?” and he’s looking at him and harry feels warmth spread under his skin and it shouldn’t, not after so long, but.

“yeah.”

he’s not really, but it’s close.

* * *

it happens again. it’s a frenzy this time, a whole street overflowing with barricaded and high-pitched girls, and they need to get past.

there’s a lot of “where’s niall?” and “no don’t freak out it’s okay” and “don’t lose your shoes”. people are pushing everywhere there’s a sea of heads all around them and chaos, lots and lots of chaos.

chaos is why harry doesn’t feel the sharp tug at his neck. or maybe he does and doesn’t pay attention to it.

later, though, when they’re in the bus, he misses the weight of his cross necklace around his neck. the realisation sends a jolt of dread to his stomach.

“harry? what’s wrong?”

it must show on his face because zayn and liam’s chatting has trailed off and now they’re both looking at him with concern.

“i, um. i may have lost my necklace. you know, gemma’s.” they swapped when he went to visit cheshire a couple of weeks ago. he loves wearing a silver piece of home around his neck.

liam and zayn help him look for it, underneath the cushions of the seats and in every one of their bunks, but they don’t find it. it’s during dinner – drive-in mcdonalds – that the possibility occurs to harry.

“what if someone ripped it off?” he wonders out loud.

niall turns to look at him, sipping his coke. “what, mate?”

“my necklace.”

“oh.” niall taps hi chin with his straw thoughtfully. “that would probably suck, a lot.”

“yeah.”

“what’s up, lads?” louis asks when he gets back from the loo, launching himself on the seat net to harry. he dips four chips in the mayonnaise and sticks them all into his mouth at once.

“harry lost his necklace.”

“harry. you did?”

“it wasn’t on purpose.”

“yeah, yeah, i know that, but. _harry_.” louis pets harry’s hair with frustration. “it was gemma’s, right?” and of course louis would know such things. he seems to dash past everyone and everything and life in general, and he does – but somehow, he remembers these things about harry.

so harry nods and averts his eyes, because the _thing_ ’s there again and he doesn’t want louis to see. just to make this moment last a bit longer, because louis is looking at him and worrying about him and it may be a little bit egoistical, but harry revels in the attention.

“i think a fan took it off me. maybe.”

“yeah – you’ve got, um. you’ve got marks on your neck, see.”

harry can’t see them, of course, but louis grabs his hand and places it on the back of his neck and harry feels the tiniest coarseness where there should be none – where the chain cut into his neck. but louis’ fingers are warm around his, and that’s a bit distracting, too.

harry’s mood lies low and spread flat on the ground, because he’s lost his little piece of home to carry around and someone just took it off him and that’s not okay. but for now, there’s louis, and that’s nice.

“we’ll find you another necklace, harry,” says louis, even though they both know that’s not the point.

“okay,”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

* * *

that night, he crawls into zayn’s bunk and curls up against his side.

“you know this is a really small bed, right,” zayn slurs sleepily. it doesn’t sound like a question.

“yep.”

“you – whatever, i don’t know why i bother.” he yawns and lifts his arm up so harry can snuggle up to him underneath it.

* * *

**iv.**

harry wakes up when the bunk curtain is pulled back harshly and radiant light pierces his eyelids. for god’s sake. he groans.

“oh, get up, lazy bum,” louis voice greets him from somewhere amidst morning sun. yet, no matter how silly the insult is supposed to sound, it sounds short and irritated and it darkens the room a little bit. harry is able to see, now - he sees louis’ frown and his legs spread into a stance of dissatisfaction.

it’s almost funny, really, but that’s louis. isn’t it.

he props himself up on his elbow. “lou?”

“harry. i was under the impression your bed was,” – he points – “right there. next to mine. see?” he sounds so _aggravated_.

harry snorts.

it makes louis backpedal the tiniest bit.

why does zayn sleep through all this? why does he always?

“so, um,” louis starts again, but it’s quieter this time, expression carefully blank. it’s like he’s forgotten how well harry knows him. “are you and him a thing now?”

there’s two beats of silence.

“what?”

“you know, like. a thing. you.” embarrassment is gleaming through the staged indifference.

“me? and _zayn_?”

“yeah. you and zayn.”

and that does make him laugh out loud, a burst of sound that he covers quickly with his hand as not to wake zayn – niall and liam seem to have gotten up already. and so did louis, because he’s already fully clothed and his hair looks damp from a shower.

“ _me and zayn_?” he whispers again, loudly, just to have something to say. because what could he possibly say to something like this? it’s too ridiculous for words.

louis throws his hands up in the air. “yes! yes, you and zayn! it’s not like you’re not bloody obvious all the time, right? with the cuddling and the hugging and the _snogging_ –” something seems to catch in his throat.

oh, right. harry supposes that could lead to the wrong conclusions. suddenly, he doesn’t feel like laughing at all anymore, because if there’s anyone he doesn’t want to be lead to the wrong conclusions, it’s louis. there’s a nervous pull behind his bellybutton at the thought, but he doesn’t really know why.

and he wants to say something, doesn’t know what, opens his mouth – “but it’s not like we haven’t snogged, either,” is what comes blurting out.

there’s no shock, no frozen moment, only louis shifting from one foot to the other and back. “but we – and you –”

“no, _you_.” harry retorts. he’s not angry. he’s not even annoyed. he’s just really, really tired of all the dancing around each other they’ve got going on. “ _you_ said no, louis. you don’t get to, like, do this.” he takes a deep breath. “you don’t get to do this to me. you said no, i get lonely a lot, and zayn was there for me and he’s still here for me now. okay?”

louis just stares at him, stares through him, borderline shocked. “no, he breathes, “no, it’s not okay.”

“what the heck, louis.”

“it’s not – okay, harry, i know what i said, back then, okay? i know. but,” – he squats until he’s no longer towering above harry but so their faces are on the same level. there’s a lot of blue in harry’s vision, now – “listen to me now, alright, i –”

but harry interrupts him. he doesn’t do that a lot, interrupting people. it feels different. “i don’t want to listen! i listened enough. i _always_ listen. you didn’t _want_ me.” as if the situation isn’t embarrassing enough already, his voice breaks sadly on the _want_.

“it was never about whether i wanted you or not! it was never, never about that. because i do, harry, so much, and i never said otherwise.”

“but you said –”

“i know what i said – i said we shouldn’t. i mean like, we were in a band together, you know? still are. and i thought that us, together, might not have been the best idea at that point. everything was unsure back then, remember? we didn’t even know if we’d make the next week. i didn’t even know if i’d see you again after the show was over.”

“of course you would.”

“yeah, i know that _now_. but I figured it would be easier to stop it there, than to get in to deep and not be able to pull myself together, after. i tried not to, like, fall for you, or shit. i suppose.”

harry suddenly catches onto the way the way this conversation is going and a burst of hope so sharp it’s almost painful jolts trough his chest.

“proper romantic, you are,” he jokes a bit breathlessly.

louis looks at him from under his long long lashes, trying to read into his words. “it didn’t work,” he says eventually and that’s what harry’s been waiting for. for a really, really long time.

“why didn’t you _tell_ me?” he asks, voice cloaked in the happiest form of desperation. “why didn’t you just _say_ so?”

“i thought – i thought you’d moved on! and we’re still in a band together, so we _shouldn’t_ , but damn it if i give a fuck anymore.” and with that, louis surges forward and latches his lips onto harry’s.

it’s familiar in ways and unfamiliar in others. there’s the taste and the skin and the heat and louis, but there’s also the stubble and the teeth on his lower lip and _louis_.

between kisses, louis is still talking, however barely. “and then zayn – i thought – you and him – and if i couldn’t then why – could he – so _unfair_ –”

harry giggles giddily and tugs louis closer by his upper arms until louis has two hands in his hair and harry’s leaning forward so he has to arch his back. it’s brilliant, because he can _do_ this now and louis _wants_ to.

he breathes mint into his mouth and there’s something like love seeping through their teeth.

the world is coloured in technicolor.

it was never really nothing, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: lewdis
> 
> tell me what you think maybe hopefully please?


End file.
